


Green Like Memory

by lugubrious



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 14:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13976679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lugubrious/pseuds/lugubrious
Summary: For years on end, Frodo is alone running a cafe at the end of the world. Then Sam comes along.





	Green Like Memory

The air smells, quietly, of rust. Rust and rain. 

Everyone who stops by comments on it. They tilt their faces upwards to the sandy sky and breathe deep.

‘It smells like something,’ they say, noses wrinkling. ‘The air is different here.’

‘It’s rust,’ Frodo responds, and watches with some amusement as they make the same faces every time - sparked comprehension. ‘Don’t worry,’ he adds. ‘It’s quite breathable.’

‘Well I should think so,’ they laugh. ‘After all, you’re still here.’

He smiles at that. Yes, he is still here. As far as he can tell, he always will be. So they chat a little more, him and his visitors, and then - days, weeks, months later - they leave. Then someone new arrives. Rinse and repeat.

The air didn’t always smell like rust and rain, of course. Frodo can’t really remember back that far - it doesn’t trouble him. The world was one way, then it changed. And he was here, tucked away in his corner with the little house by the hill, and he’s still here. The same as he always was.

The house has changed a bit though.

It’s three floors now, for one thing - one of his longest staying guests helped plan out the top floor and then put the plan into action. That’s where he lives, and even though the doorways are all a little bit wonky he’s proud of it. The second floor is divided into four rooms, all bedrooms, and one bathroom. His guests can stay here if they plan on sticking around for a while and they don’t fancy sleeping outside. There aren’t many weapons left in the world that he’s seen, but there’s still a strict ‘no arms’ policy if you want to go upstairs. So far there’s only been one attempted breach, which resulted in the first time Frodo has really gotten angry in some time. One of his guests, one of the few who’s been known to return every now and then commented on his anger later that night.

‘Like a struck match,’ he’d said, grinning. ‘Nothing there - then - _whoomph_. Burst into flames, you did. If I never saw you angry again, my friend, I’d sleep easy. But I’ll sleep easier knowin’ you can be, when it’s called for.’

The ground floor is the cafe and kitchen, with two shuttered windows that open out onto the dirt path that brings so many past his door. He spends most of his time there, cooking or talking or reading (when he has time). The big windows on all sides are thrown open more often than not, the air is the same cool, rusty, rainy yellow inside as it is out.  

And for the most part, he is content.

Odd, kind, wild, wonderful people pass in and out of his life on a near daily basis. They sit awhile and talk, about life and their travels. Some stay longer than others, years even. But in the end it’s always the same.

In the end they always leave.

-

It’s more unusual to see a familiar face than it is to see a strange one, so when Frodo hears a knock at the door and is greeted by no one he knows, he smiles just as brightly. He’d been entertaining a group of regulars, eight children who blow in and out of his establishment every few months, and spend the rest of their time exploring because there’s no one to tell them not too. He stands, handing the little one on his lap off to one of the older children, a solemn faced girl called Nerwen, and pulls open his front door. On the dusty path, like so many before him, stands a young lad a little taller than himself. His hair is curly, but dull with grit and he’s cradling a sapling in his hands.

Frodo stares at it.

The earth is the same colour as all earth is now, a pale crumbly brown that near mirrors the biscuit yellow sky, but the leaves are green - green - green like _memory_. He swallows, eyes flit to meet that of the man before him, then clears his throat.

‘Would you like to come in?’ he asks, a tad hoarsely.

‘If you don’t mind,’ the lad mumbles, ducking his head.

‘Mind?’ Frodo brushes aside his shock in favour of laughter, and ushers his new guest in from outside. ‘Of course not! In all the time I’ve been here, I don’t think I’ve ever minded anyone. Although,’ he eyes the dirty curls with mock-annoyance, ‘I expect if we don’t get you washed up quick you’ll be getting dirt all over my floor.’

The lad blushes thickly, and Frodo laughs again, clasping his shoulder. ‘Does a bath suit?’

‘If it’s not - ’

‘I wouldn’t have offered if it were. Just head upstairs, the bathroom is the third door to the left. Knock before you go in, but I expect it’s empty. Oh, and no weapons allowed on the second floor.’

‘I’m not carrying any,’ the lad said, looking a tad indignant now. ‘But,’ he nods towards the plant, and sure enough faint yellow flecks start to drift towards the ground. ‘D’you have anywhere I can put this down?’

‘Will a pot do?’

‘In a pinch.’

Frodo steps neatly into the kitchen and pulls out one of his many brass pots, and the sapling is nestled carefully in it’s glowing depths. For a moment the lad looks at the plant with such a fond apprehension and Frodo feels the weight of the responsibility he’s just been handed.

‘What do you go by?’ he asks.

‘Samwise.’

‘Samwise. Well, you go upstairs. I’ll look after this until you’re done.’

Samwise nods, and his lips quirk slightly. ‘Thank you.’ Then he climbs up, and Frodo sets the plant down very carefully on the kitchen bench. There’s a tug at his elbow; he looks around to see one of the children by his side. He stoops down to eye level and says, very seriously,

‘What can I do for you, Master Belegorn?’

‘What’s that?’ Belegorn nods towards the pot and it’s precious contents, wide eyed. Not much green of that colour was to be seen anymore.

‘A plant of some sort.’ Frodo studies it, tracing the thin veins that furl outward on the wide, glossy leaf. He feels sure he had known something like this, long ago, but he can’t be sure anymore.

Belegorn wrinkles his nose. ‘That’s no plant,’ he says, meaning the thin waifish fronds that line the path to Frodo’s door, and the soft silver flowers found by the lake a few miles to the east.

‘It is,’ Frodo assures him. ‘Just very different to the ones you know.’

Belegorn looks back at the pot with a certain level of suspicion, then darts out a finger and strokes it over the face of one of the leaves. ‘Huh,’ he says. ‘Weird.’

-

By the time Samwise has emerged from his bath, the children have left the cafe in much the same way as they came, with a lot of shouting and shoving and calls of,

‘Bye, Mr. Frodo!’

‘See you later!’

‘Stop _pushing_ me!’

Frodo is seated at the table closest to the kitchen, book open, and he looks up and smiles. Samwise’s hair is clean now, but damp still, and it gathers on his forehead and at the nape of his neck in dark golden whorls. Frodo nods to the pot beside his elbow.

‘See? Safe as ever.’

Sam runs a gentle finger down the stalk of the plant, and looks reassured of it’s health. ‘I was more worried about one of the little ‘un’s knocking it over when on the warpath than you damaging it,’ he says. Frodo laughs.

‘They’re quite good actually. I only get about three broken saucers now when they come. Nerwen loves to tell them off if they cause too much of a rukus.’

‘The little blonde one?’ Samwise asks. ‘She had an air of that about her.’

‘How was the bath?’

‘Lovely.’ Samwise flushes slightly, but sets his jaw. ‘Thank you.’

Set off kilter by Samwise’s bashfulness, Frodo gets to his feet and shrugs. ‘No need for thanks. I like having visitors. But - can I ask about,’ he gestures to the sapling and watches as Samwise’s face brightens. They both turn and lean over the table. Frodo sets his elbows down and props his chin on his hands. ‘What is it?’ he doesn’t realise he’s lowered his voice to a murmur until Samwise glances at him.

‘In truth, I’m not quite sure.’ Samwise pulls his pack towards them and opens the top pocket, pulling out a large book. The writing is intelligible, but there are many detailed drawings, and one almost perfectly matches the plant in front of them. ‘I found it some way back, about a week ago.’

‘Why did you decide to bring it with you?’

Samwise furrows his brow, considering. ‘I thought - and pardon me if this sounds a little odd - it wasn’t going to survive in that little patch of earth much longer.’

‘It looks quite healthy now. What have you been doing to it?’

‘Just… waterin’ it and such.’

He sounds defensive, and Frodo gets the feeling that that’s not all he’s been doing for this little green stalk, but he doesn’t push it. His guests, they’ll tell him what they want to tell him, when they want to tell him. He slides the brass pot across the table, closer to Samwise.

‘You can use that to keep it in. It might be a tad easier than your bare hands. But, now - ’ he cuts across Samwise’s outbreak of protests, ‘I’m desperate for a cup of tea. Would you like one?’

-

Samwise spends the night, and he’s the only one that does that day. By dinner time a party of three drop in and Frodo pulls the tables together for the small group, they sit the five of them, swapping stories, but then the three plead a desire to walk under the night sky and vanish, leaving him cleaning up and Samwise helping, despite Frodo’s insistence that he needn’t do anything. Then he retires, leaving Frodo reading again at his favourite table, taking the sapling with him. 

The next morning, Frodo rises as he always does just before the Sun, so he can stand outside and watch it push feeble rays through the thick night sky. He follows it’s progress first from his bedroom window, then the landing of the second floor, then finally he pulls open the front door to the cafe, and standing out on the dusty road, watching the sky, is Samwise. The eddying dark blue of the night sky frames him, and the fresh sunbeams catch in his dry, haphazard curls. They’re crushed to the side by sleep, and to Frodo they look like honey. He clears his throat. Samwise jumps.

‘Good morning.’ Frodo sucks his lips in, trying not to laugh at Samwise’s wide eyes. ‘Did you sleep well?’ 

‘Very well,’ Samwise replies, his voice still heavy. ‘And yourself?’ 

‘Ah, I can’t complain.’ Frodo stretches his arms above his head and catches his wrist with his other hand, straining until he feels a faint click.

Samwise smiles, and Frodo wonders how long he has. 

- 

Samwise is still there the next day, too. He vanishes during the hours between lunch and dinner, but leaves his pack behind, so Frodo isn’t surprised when he comes traipsing back in a little after sunset, holding the pot - which has been filled with fresh, damp dirt from the beds of the lake. It has been a quiet day for Frodo, only one other traveller stopping by for lunch, and when Samwise gets back he tries his best not to pester him with questions, instead contenting himself with, ‘how did you know of the lake?’   

‘I walked past it to get here,’ Samwise says, carefully washing the remaining dirt off his hands. 

Frodo frowns at that, trying to map out which direction Samwise had come from. But his musings are cut short by Samwise peering at him, saying, 

‘Many guests today?’ 

‘Alas, no. But it’s alright, there are always slow days.’ 

‘So you really do like people dropping by, then?’ 

‘Of course! Otherwise it’d just be - and there are so many interesting people to meet.’ Frodo flushes, hoping his slip hasn’t been noticed. Samwise’s face is hard to read in the glow of the candles he’s lit around the cafe, but he doesn’t anything, and after a while Frodo decides he’s probably safe. 

‘I’ll be heading off to bed,’ Samwise says, some hours later.

Frodo nods, inordinately grateful. ‘Sleep well, Samwise.’

- 

He’s still there the next day, too, when Frodo gets his first good crowd of guests in a while. All in all, over thirty step through his door, and he ends up with seven of them spending the night, but again Samwise is the only one that stays on after the morning. 

Frodo is perfectly happy with this arrangement; as much as he loves his guests after a while he finds entertaining tiring, but not so much with Samwise’s gentle presence. And that’s only when Samwise is there, most days he vanishes sometime after breakfast or lunch and reappears hours later, looking as dusty as he had on his first day. 

After almost a week of Samwise staying with him, Frodo’s curiosity gets the better of him. He’d spent the past few days trying to work out how to ask - tactfully, in a way that didn’t mean he thought of Samwise as a nuisance - what exactly it was Samwise spent his days doing. Finally he gives up trying to be tactful and just goes in head first. 

‘What do you do all day?’ he says, then winces at the sound of the words. He and Samwise are huddled together over the sink, washing the days dishes (he’s given up on trying to tell Samwise he doesn’t need to help). ‘I mean,’ he adds, ‘I know you go to the lake sometimes to bring back more earth for the sapling, but I was just… curious…’ he trails off, feeling sheepish. It’s really not any of his business what Samwise does with his time, but he still - 

‘Well.’ Samwise sets the pot down, and to Frodo’s horror looks distinctly uncomfortable. 

‘I’m sorry,’ he rushes, ‘I shouldn’t have asked, I’m not trying to get rid of you, I just -’ 

‘I’m mostly in your garden,’ Samwise blurts out, and Frodo’s mouth snaps shut. He squints. 

‘My what?’ 

‘Your garden.’

‘But I don’t have a garden.’

‘Well then, the bit of earth behind the cafe. That’s where I am, mostly.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Gardening,’ Samwise says, with the hint of a smile that seems much more sly than usual, and Frodo rolls his eyes.

‘ _Thank_ you, Samwise.’

Samwise chuckles, the line between his eyebrows smoothed somewhat, then picks up the bowl he was washing and dunks it back in the water. ‘There’s a little square bit right by the window on that side,’ he says softly, and Frodo has to strain to hear him over the noise. ‘Just a bit of it, shadowed by the eaves, you see, but it catches the sunlight well enough. And I thought, maybe -’

Frodo feels a fluttering in his throat, almost like the tickle of a cough, but softer, yet more restricting. He swallows.

‘What did you think?’

‘Well.’ Samwise pauses for a moment, then looks Frodo straight in the eye. ‘I thought it might be as good a place as any to plant that little sapling.’

Frodo has given up on washing dishes. His hands float limply now, in soapy water, and he gazes at Samwise. ‘You want to plant it in my garden?’

‘If you don’t mind,’ Samwise mumbles, the brief moment of conviction melting away to his more standard humility.

‘Yes, Samwise, I mind very much! How dare you plant that beautiful sapling near my window where I can look at it always.’

Samwise glances at Frodo to see him grinning, and his shoulders loosen from where they were hunched almost at his ears. He mumbles something under his breath, smiling, and Frodo reaches over to nudge him with a soapy elbow.   

-

Now that he knows where Samwise is, it’s a lot easier for Frodo to fill his days with him, leaning out the window closest to the square Samwise has claimed for his plant. He stays there when not entertaining, head resting on his arms, offering assistance every now and again - but content too that Samwise seems so much easier out there with earth in his hands than he does inside. After the previous night’s confession, Samwise also relaxes somewhat, his gaze meeting Frodo’s with a frankness not previously noticeable. He has a way about him, when he’s not ducking and blushing, like the stern, bruise coloured trees that cluster across the horizon. Frodo walked there once, leaving his cafe as he does every few months to travel where he wishes. Standing amongst those purple trees, he could see the humps of roots pushing deep into the soft earth. Steady. Immoveable. Samwise is like that, a bit. Still earth after a rocking ocean.

Frodo would tell him this, if he had the words. He would tell Samwise a lot of things, and Samwise would listen closely, and understand, and _know._ And then maybe it would be alright.

‘How long will it take?’ Frodo nods towards Samwise’s sapling. ‘To plant?’

‘The weather’s not right,’ Samwise doesn’t look up from his work. ‘Too hot, y’see. It needs the cool, to properly take.’

‘So I suppose you’ll be here at least until the cool comes?’ Frodo asks, his mouth curling about the words in a way that belays their calm tone. Samwise’s head jerks up suddenly, and Frodo sees a flicker of the familiar uncertainty in his expression.

‘If - I mean -’

‘Samwise.’ Frodo straightens, and shakes his head. ‘When will I convince you that your presence here is not only welcome, but thoroughly enjoyable?’

Samwise’s cheeks bloom russet, he chews his lips and for a moment Frodo wonders if maybe he overstepped. But then Samwise says quite distinctly, if without much volume,

‘Sam’s alright.’

‘What?’

‘Sam. Instead of Samwise. You can call me Sam.’

His eyes flash up, quicksilver in the orange sunlight. Frodo’s pulse staggers a little in his breast. 

‘Alright,’ he says, his lips slow and clumsy. ‘Sam it is.’

Sam smiles.

-

The first time Frodo realises exactly what it is he wants, his cafe has been besieged by a horde of regulars. There’s the golden haired, steely eyed Eowyn and her moon kissed lover Arwen - they alight on his doorstep like two leaves, crumpled around the edges by their journeys.  Next is Strider, who, like every time he appears, seems simply to be there, smoking quietly, as though he has melted out of the smooth walls. The thirteen, as they call themselves, a group who rival Frodo’s children in noise and exuberance whenever they pass through, and two of his oldest patrons, Meriadoc and Peregrin, who fold themselves over jugs of home-brewed ale and can be heard laughing, bright and easy, above the rest of the noise.

On all sides there are calls for Frodo to come, join his friends and sit with them, share his stories and hear theirs, and normally he would love nothing more. But with Sam at his side, after a stretch of several days with one or two other guests at most, he feels oddly reluctant to abandon his friend. Eventually the burden of choice is taken from him when Strider calls,

‘Who is this?’ and gestures to Sam. ‘I’ve not seen you before. Will you join me?’ He beckons, and Sam, like any other who meets Strider, seems both intimidated by his air of suppressed power, and eased by his earnest manner. Sam exchanges a look with Frodo, who nods, being very fond of Strider himself, and watches happily as Sam picks his way across the crowded room to the man’s side.

‘Frodo!’ Merry’s voice breaks the shell of his thoughts, and he turns. This time he allows himself to be summoned. He sits down beside Pippin, beaming. ‘Who’s that?’ Merry nods towards Sam, now drawn into conversation with Strider.

‘Sam.’

‘Ah yes. I feel as if I know the lad, body and soul.’

Frodo sticks his tongue out, and Merry responds in kind. Pippin grins, a wide, pointy thing, and says,

‘Whoever he is, he’s got lovely eyes, doesn’t he?’

Frodo can summon no reply to this. Merry, on the other hand, throws an affronted look towards his companion. 

‘I can’t remember the last time you said that about _my_ eyes.’

‘I’m actually considering trading you in for something a bit more new and exciting.’

‘And I suppose I’m about as exciting as chopped liver.’

‘Well, precisely.’

Merry catches Pippin’s hand in his and presses an exasperated kiss on the knuckles, then turns back to Frodo.

‘Truthfully though. It’s good to see you… with someone at your side.’

Pippin nods, looking suddenly sober. ‘We worry about you, Frodo.’

Of all those who frequent his establishment (frequent being used in the most loosest sense of the word,) Merry and Pippin have been his longest and most consistent guests. They’re in and out at least once every few months, with the longest stretch in between visits since the first being near half a year. But they needn’t -

‘You needn’t worry.’ Frodo clasps one hand of theirs each in his. ‘I’m perfectly alright.’

_Besides,_ a very cold, brittle voice deep in his navel whispers. _You may worry, but it’s never enough to make you stay, is it?_

He quickly lets go and folds his hands in his lap, trying to smile naturally. Merry’s eyes are dark in the dim light, he seems somewhere between melancholy and amused, and Pippin’s expression is the same as all the others that flit across his face. He has the most unsettling knack for one so prone to larking around, of being able to cut clean to the heart of a matter and then refuse to shy away. What with that and Merry’s sly sense of deduction, they make a formidable team. Frodo jumps to his feet.

‘Can I interest you in some more drink?’

-

After the cafe has died down slightly, all his guests sated with drink and food and either retired to their rooms, or talking quietly by candle light, Frodo finds Sam once again at the kitchen sink, concentrating on the pile of plates to his side.

‘Thank you, Sam,’ he murmurs, coming to stand beside him. He reaches for a hand cloth and begins to dry the already clean bowls.

For a long moment they are quiet, then Sam says, 

‘He’s something else, that Strider.’ 

Frodo smiles. ‘I always enjoy when he comes here, though he never stays long. What were you talking about, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Not at all. He had questions about my journey, where I’d been, what I’d done.’ 

‘Where you intend to go,’ Frodo adds, the corner of his mouth tugging downwards. He scrubs fiercely at the plate in his grip and then sets it aside with a loud _thunk_ and plunges his hands into the water to help Sam wash the final few dishes. He can feel Sam’s shrug, their shoulders brushing together due to the size of the sink.  

‘That didn’t come up, as such.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

The twist in Frodo’s breast loosens, and he scolds himself for being so sharp. As a peace offering, he asks,

‘Did you tell him about the sapling?’

‘That I did.’ Sam’s mouth lifts gently, as it always does at the mention of his little green sprout, and Frodo, with his hands deep in warm, scummy water, is struck very thoroughly with a desire to twist his head and lean over and press his own lips against the curve of Sam’s. He stands, frozen, not registering Sam’s words for the thick blood in his ears and the sparks in his chest, until Sam nudges his side gently.

‘Sorry,’ Frodo says automatically, pulling his hands from the water and wiping them on the hand towel. ‘What were you saying?’

‘Only that you look a mite tired,’ Sam replies, raising his eyebrows. Frodo can’t help the puff of laughter that he emits, wiping his forearm across his brow.

‘You could be right.’ 

‘I could be.’ 

‘Yes. It’s possible.’ 

‘Mmm.’ Sam grins. ‘That it is, once in a blue moon.’

Frodo swats at him. ‘Maybe a bit more often than that.’

‘Once a fortnight.’

‘Once a - ’

‘’Scuse me.’ Pippin’s smile is an interesting combination of both smug and tender. ‘So sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to wish you a goodnight, Frodo. Merry and I are retiring. Sam.’ He holds out his hand, which Sam shakes after hastily wiping his own on his trouser leg. ‘I hope we can get properly acquainted tomorrow.’  

‘So you’re staying?’ Frodo blurts out. Pippin softens.

‘Yes. For a few days I expect. We missed it here. And you, of course.’

‘Sleep well.’

Frodo watches Pippin and Merry disappear upstairs, then looks at Sam and shakes his head. ‘Gits,’ he says fondly. Sam smiles, a little cautiously, which is understandable. Pippin is never easy to wrap your head around on first meeting him. ‘I made the mistake once, a few years ago, of giving them a wake up call myself.’ He smirks at Sam. ‘They were plenty alert already. My assistance was neither needed nor wanted.’ 

Sam laughs. ‘You’ve certainly seen some sights.’

‘I have.’ _None quite like you, standing on my doorstep with the sapling in your hands and dust in your hair. None quite like you looking as though the sky had come down to earth and was holding the old world in his hands._

_None quite like you._

-

Merry and Pippin stay near enough five whole days. Their last evening they invite Frodo and Sam to accompany them to the lake and so Frodo closes up and they make the short journey to arrive just before sunset.

The water is warm, growing colder the deeper it gets. Frodo tugs off all but his trousers and runs out into the cool, waist high part of the lake, then turns.

‘Sam! Are you coming in?’

A little to his left, Merry unceremoniously tackles Pippin to the ground and they both fall below the surface. Sam doesn’t remove his top, but he rolls his sleeves up to his forearms and steps gingerly into the water. Frodo wades back towards him, beaming.

‘We can bring back more earth for your plant.’

‘Aye.’ Sam offers Frodo a small smile, then his face falls back into a strange, shuttered expression. For a moment he seems to teeter on the edge of something. Then, ‘I can’t swim.’ He breathes out low, gazing at the water lapping his ankles with significant apprehension. ‘Never learnt.’

Frodo isn’t sure he was ever both alive and unable to swim. For as far back as he can recall, he has been able to float and dive and play in this lake to his heart's content. 

‘I could teach you. If you wanted to learn.’

‘I don’t know...’ Sam tips his head a little to the side. ‘Truth be told I’d rather avoid any reason to swim. But maybe - would you teach me to float?’ 

Frodo bites down on a more teasing reply and just nods, deciding to save mischief until after Sam feels more comfortable. Instead he holds his arms out, coaxing his cautious charge a little deeper. Sam moves towards him. Frodo can see the little shivers run up his arms as he reaches the coolness of the under-layer of water.

‘To float we’ll have to go out a little deeper. Is that alright?’ 

Sam sets his shoulders and before Frodo can stop him, sloshes through the water until it’s almost up to his waist. Then he glances around, a little paler than usual but with a glow of mirth in his eyes.

‘Well? Are you joinin’ me?’

‘You-’ Frodo staggers across the silty ground and splashes Sam as soon as he’s close enough. ‘Alright. Lie on your back.’ 

‘Lie - in the water?’

‘I’ll hold you here,’ Frodo reaches down and pokes the underside of Sam’s knee. ‘And under your neck. Like so.’ He demonstrates on himself, and then gestures to Sam. ‘Lie back.’

Tiny waves ripple out from where Pippin is doing his best to drown Merry, and Sam obediently tips his face towards the sky. Frodo presses a hand to the back of Sam’s neck, just above his shoulder blades, and settles the other one in the crook of his legs. 

‘See, I don’t have to do much,’ he says, looking down at the wispy clouds reflected in Sam’s eyes. ‘The water is doing most of the work.’

Sam glares at him, an expression at odds with the soft fronds of hair now swirling about his head. ‘Don’t let go.’ Then he breathes out a little shakily. ‘Not yet.’

‘I won’t.’ Frodo puts as much reassurance as he can in his voice, and pushes all other thoughts away - _Sam’s skin is so warm_ \- to allow him to focus on the task at hand. They remain there for a good while, until Sam flips back upright and finds his footing, pushing his hair away from his face.

‘It’s quite peaceful, like,’ he says thoughtfully, trailing his fingers in the water. Frodo’s hands tingle, cool sweeping into spaces suddenly empty where before they had been full of - well - Sam. 

‘D’you think you could do it by yourself now?’ Frodo asks, hoping Sam says, _no, not yet_.

‘I reckon.’ Sam offers his hand to Frodo suddenly, and Frodo stares at it. Then looks up at Sam.

‘So one of us doesn’t float away,’ Sam says with his odd combination of bright flush and steady determination. It doesn’t seem to occur to him that the lake is hardly wide enough for floating away to be of any concern, and Frodo certainly isn’t going to be the one to mention it. He winds his fingers between Sam’s and together they lie out on the water. Frodo gazes upwards. The liquid swirls around his ears, filling them until all he can hear is the gentle thrumming of his own blood, the soft sigh of the lake, and all he can feel is the steady pulse in Sam’s wrist, beating against the ball of his thumb.

‘Sam can’t swim?’ Merry says later, when they’re making their way back to the cafe. ‘My, who would have thought it?’

Frodo chooses to ignore the laughter behind the words, and the sinking feeling in his gut that he and Sam had played their parts in Merry and Pippin’s little scheme quite perfectly. Merry laughs low, slinging his arm around Frodo’s neck.

‘You are one stubborn ass,’ he says affectionately.

‘You would know,’ Frodo mutters. ‘You rub shoulders with the best of them. Well, a bit more than shoulders actually.’

Frodo and Merry’s snickers drift back to Pippin and Sam walking behind them, and Pippin nudges Sam in the ribs.

‘I wonder what those gits are talking about.’

-

They leave the next morning, and Frodo spends the day in a state of strange tugging melancholy. He always misses them when they leave, but at the same time their departure meant it was once again him and Sam alone in the cafe. 

And he had also missed that.

He tells Sam as much, idly, once again standing beside him at the kitchen sink.

‘I did, too,’ Sam says, and looks at Frodo. Looks at him and doesn’t turn away.

In the dim light of the evening, Sam’s curls burn and glow. His eyes are dark. There isn’t much space between them to begin with and within seconds what little remained vanishes as they shift towards one another. Frodo lifts his hands and lets them fall on Sam’s waist, barely touching. It’s not enough, but it’s all he can manage. 

He tips his face upwards, a flower to the sun, and waits.

Sam’s lips are warm, and soft, and - fleeting. But then he digs his fingers into Sam’s waist a little, fizzy with wanting, and this time it’s firmer. He slides his hands round until they meet, pulling Sam closer still, and now their faces tilt and come together, Sam’s nose bumps his cheek and lips move slowly, over and in between, deep breaths and the slight rustle of clothing.

Sam pulls away again, his breathing noticeably heavier than before. By way of explanation, he holds his soapy hands up.

‘I didn’t want to get your shirt wet,’ he says. Frodo laughs.

‘You’re trying my patience, Samwise.’

Sam dries himself with childish slowness, eyebrows raised, and Frodo sticks his tongue. Sam comes back, kissing the tip of it. 

‘Euch!’

‘Hush, you ninny.’

‘You’re the ninny.’

‘And your chatter is stopping me from doin’ what I want to be doing.’

‘Ah.’ Frodo presses his lips together and resettles his arms around Sam, this time twining them behind his neck. ‘I do apologise.’

‘I’m sure I’ll soon forgive you.’

Sam’s fingers splay on either side of Frodo’s ribs, and now Frodo is the one who leans over and brushes his mouth across Sam’s.

The cafe is quiet that night.

-

He wakes up the next morning half expecting to be alone again. One can only hold so much happiness with but two hands, and already it’s spilling from his fingers in bright streams. But no, Sam is there watching the sunrise, just like he was the day before, and the day before that. Frodo approaches him with a fluttery kind of shyness. He grips Sam’s shoulder to announce his presence, and Sam looks around at him. His mouth is already shaped in that clear smile he has.

‘Morning,’ he says.

‘Good morning.’ Frodo leans back on his feet for a moment, considering, then rocks forward and kisses Sam’s lower lip, soft enough so as not to ruin his expression. He pulls away. Sighs. And, appallingly, blushes. ‘Was that alright?’

‘Oh, I’d say.’ Sam pushes the sleep-mussed hair back from Frodo’s face with his palm. ‘Very much so.’

‘Then you wouldn’t mind -’ Frodo trails his fingers across Sam’s jaw, emboldened by the thick, fresh sunshine and the goosebumps he raises on Sam’s neck- ‘you wouldn’t mind if I did it again?’

Sam’s reply against Frodo’s skin suggests he certainly wouldn’t.

-

Eventually the warm weather begins to wane, replaced by the gusty days that precede the cold. In order to pass the time till the earth is right for the little sapling, Sam takes to planting little sprigs and seeds around the cafe. A cluster of silver flowers under the window sill. Long, frail grass whispering in curls around the house. The blue buds of the creeper that lives further down the path, in the shade of the bruised trees, slinks up the side of the cafe and now taps shyly on Frodo’s own bedroom window.

He mentioned the new development only once, a teasing, thoughtless thing, and then watched in dismay as the now much more infrequent track of warmth spread across Sam’s throat and cheeks.  

‘Do you not want these here?’ Sam had mumbled, glancing down at the fresh bunch in his hands. Frodo shook his head, cursing himself.

‘Of course I do, I was only teasing. I’m sorry.’ 

‘Naught you have t’apologise for,’ Sam said, slipping into the rougher accent he had when he got flustered. ‘It’s your garden, after all.’

‘Well actually.’ Frodo grasped Sam’s clenched fist and squeezed it. ‘It was just a patch of earth to me. These are your flowers, Sam, your bushes. This is your garden.’

It became so lush and colourful, a few of Frodo’s guests asked if they were able to take their tea out there. But it was the windy season, and as Frodo well knew the surrounding area was prone to dust storms. He promised his guests that when the danger of such storms had passed he would indeed set up seating outside, but until he could be sure of their safety, he would ask that they kindly remain indoors.

Luckily, when a storm finally blows itself into existence, all of Frodo’s guests are inside, except, as far as he knows, Sam, who is down by the lake, and Frodo himself. The reason for this is that earlier that morning, while leaning out of the window to speak with Sam, Frodo had noticed Sam’s trowel a little way away - clearly forgotten. Sam had been caught up in transferring his most recent find into the ground, and Frodo had thought to himself,

‘I must remind him that the trowel is by the flower beds,’ except then a party of five had arrived on his doorstep, and when he was able to find a moment to himself later Sam had already vanished. 

Now Frodo pulls the scarf a little closer to his eyes, making the slit left for visibility even smaller. He had forgotten about the tool until a few minutes ago, and the price for his thoughtlessness is to struggle through the wind storm and retrieve it himself. The wind isn’t too strong yet, but the earth is easily coaxed skyward and now it flecks his eyelashes and leaves grit on his cheek. He locates the trowel - a glint of silver almost completely buried by the disturbed earth - in a few minutes, a long enough amount of time to let the wind whip up until it batters against Frodo, pulling the extra wrappings he’d put on around his throat. Frodo staggers around to where he knows the door to be, digging his fingers into the walls for support. The dirt is cloying, when he swallows he can feel it on his tongue. Frodo coughs; he wrenches the door open. It slams shut behind him, thrown by the wind, and he leans against the wood, breathing in air that feels soft in comparison.

The cafe is empty, all the guests having gone up to their respective rooms to sleep through the storm - except for one figure hunched over the table closest to the kitchen. Frodo watches, tugging absently at the scarfs he had draped over his mouth and neck, as the stranger gets to their feet. Then he laughs, delighted, and rushes forwards. 

‘Sam! I thought you were at the lake!’

‘I was.’ Sam is watching him with a strange kind of scrutiny. ‘Just made it back before the gale hit, I reckon.’

‘I’m so glad...’ Frodo reaches out and grips Sam’s forearms, beaming. ‘I knew you’d be alright by the lake, the trees make the dirt a lot more compact, but - ’

‘Why were you out there?’ Sam interrupts, and this is so unlike Sam that Frodo pauses, confused.

‘Why was I where?’

‘Outside. In the storm.’

‘Oh. Oh! Of course, I haven’t - here.’ Frodo pulls the trowel out of his pocket and presents it to Sam. ‘I remember you left it in the garden this morning. I didn’t want it to get lost.’

Sam takes the tool from Frodo and holds it, brushing the dust from the handle. His gaze flickers from the trowel in his hands to Frodo’s face, he reaches out and gives Frodo’s cheek the same treatment. His touch is gentle, but his voice when he speaks is coarse.

‘You went outside for this?’

‘Yes?’ Frodo stares at Sam, unsure of the situation he seems to have found himself in. Sam’s fingers are stroking across his cheekbone, dragging clean lines through the pale brown coating, and his mouth is curled downwards. ‘Is that - Sam, is something the matter?’

‘Only that you risked your life, going out there in that weather, and all because this eejit couldn’t take care of his own - ’ 

‘I didn’t want you to lose it! Anyone could tell how much you love being out there, and I like seeing you happy!’ Frodo says heatedly, confusion burning away into irritation.

Sam is silent for a moment. Around them, Frodo hears the gentle scraping of wind against the walls. Finally Sam’s hand on his face stills, cupping his cheek.

‘Thank you,’ Sam murmurs, in a very different voice now. ‘But as much as I do love bein’ out there with the earth, I’d much rather you be safe and sound.' 

‘Well I don’t believe that’s your choice to make.’ Frodo’s hand comes up now and he rests it against Sam’s chest, feeling the heartbeat under his palm.

‘No.’ Sam sighs. Then he smiles, and everything tilts. ‘Maybe I should just give you plenty a reason to stay inside with me, then.’

Frodo licks his lips, finding them suddenly dry, and tastes the dirt there - only then that flavour is replaced with Sam’s own, and his tongue is met with an eagerness that drags sparks deep down into his belly. They move backwards in unison until Frodo is standing with the stairs behind him, and for a moment he worries that Sam’s use of his tongue is going to render his knees useless and he’ll collapse onto the steps, when instead something far worse happens - Sam pulls away.

There’s no leading, no being lead, they simply clasp hands and race together up the stairs, fumbling with kisses pressed into hair and against wrists, short exhalations of breath until they spill out onto the landing of the top floor, where Frodo lives.

Frodo pushes open the bedroom door and stops there, leaning against the frame. Sam isn’t smiling anymore. He steps forwards very deliberately and pushes Frodo against the wood, ever so slightly.   

‘Can I - ’

Frodo tugs Sam over the doorstep, pulling the door shut behind him.  

‘You don’t have to keep asking, Sam,’ he whispers. The closed door cuts off the soft light from the main room, and now in the dark he can only trace his fingers over the swell of Sam’s lips, the smooth cheek. ‘My answer will always be yes.’

Sam’s response is a choked noise that turns into fierce, hard kisses that leave Frodo shaking.

‘Stay with me tonight?’ _Stay with me forever_.

‘I’d not leave you,’ Sam replies. And then he slips his hands under Frodo’s shirt, brushing the skin beneath, and Frodo gasps. Nothing else matters except doing the same, pulling the material away from Sam’s torso and feeling the warmth beneath, soft, rising with Sam’s rapid breath. Frodo presses his mouth to Sam’s shoulder and kisses his wishes along the line of it, his hopes and all the things that Sam has sparked in him.

They slip sideways onto the bed.

‘Oh,’ Frodo breathes. _I love you_.

- 

Frodo comes gently out of sleep the next morning with Sam’s arm draped across his chest, and a spike of happiness deep within so great and sharp it cuts him.

-

Then the cold comes.

-

The day of the planting, Merry and Pippin manage to find themselves back to the cafe and they join Frodo in the garden, to watch - and assist - Sam in the final stages. The hole is big, too big seeming for the little thing, and Sam rests it carefully in the dirt. Then he directs Frodo to steady it and fills the hole back in, packing the soil loosely around the roots. Finally, beside the sapling, Sam drives in a stick he found a few weeks back, binding the tree to the stick. Frodo had asked him before what the stick was for, and Sam had shrugged.

‘Keep it straight, like, I s’pose,’ he’d replied, and Frodo had kissed him very thoroughly. ‘What was that for?’ Sam said after they broke apart, not sounding too unhappy with the turn of events.

‘You know so much,’ Frodo said, winding his fingers through Sam’s. ‘I’m not sure how to explain it.’

Sam nodded, and then Frodo smirked at him.

‘Explain it with words, that is.’

‘But without words?’ Sam’s brief confusion melted away into something else, and he allowed himself to be tugged up the stairs behind Frodo, grinning. 

He gets to his feet, now, and nods to himself. ‘That should hold it.’ He turns to Frodo. ‘It’ll need to be watered soon, but that’s as good as done, otherwise.’

Both Merry and Pippin congratulate Sam, pulling him inside for a drink from Frodo’s own cupboard that they had raided earlier, but Frodo lingers outside. The air is already edged with chill and he shivers. The window rattles, then opens. Sam peers out at him.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ he asks, offering Frodo a glass.

‘I am,’ Frodo admits. He can't help but settle into the smile he somehow always has for Sam. ‘Hold on, I’ll come inside.’

He does, and joins Merry and Pippin and Sam around the table. There are only three other guests, a party of two and an elderly man who looks in desperate need of a warm meal and a soft bed, both of which he is provided with, so Pippin and Merry allow themselves to indulge in their rowdiness after the excitement. They make Sam re-tell the story of how he came to find both the sapling and the book he used to guide him in his quest to keep it alive. Frodo drinks and laughs with them, but he can’t help the sting settling in his breast.

Eventually Merry and Pippin bid their goodnight, Pippin planting noisy kisses on both Frodo and Sam’s foreheads and Merry waving cheerfully as he was dragged out of sight, and Frodo and Sam are once again alone. Determined to ignore the bitter taste at the back of his throat, Frodo turns to Sam.

‘Are you ever going to tell me?’

‘Tell you what?' 

‘What else it is you did for that sapling to keep it alive, on you way here. And what you do for all your plants, no doubt, to see them flourish so.’

Sam ducks his head, smiling. ‘Ah. That. It’s - well - a tad strange.’ 

‘I don’t care. And anyway, clearly it works.’

‘It’s not that special, really.’ Sam clears his throat, then shrugs. ‘I talk to them, is all.’

Deep in Frodo’s chest, he feels a simultaneous tightening and loosening. ‘You talk to them?’ he asks, strangled.

‘I do. Just whispers, like. Sometimes I sing,’ Sam chuckles. ‘I just thought it couldn’t hurt. And all those flowers, all those plants are sittin’ there looking quite beautiful and I wondered as whether anyone’d ever told them. How beautiful they were. How they brighten someone’s day, just to look at them.’

Frodo swallows, but finds his tongue is too big for his mouth and it’s restricting the air way. He gasps a little, and backs out of the chair. Sam gets to his feet too, all quiet happiness washed from his face.

‘You, Sam, you -’ Frodo can’t finish his thought, it flits in half-formed circles around his head. Sam, kind and more beautiful than anything else in this world, Sam with his deft fingers and his curls and his smile - Frodo is used to people leaving, he is, but never has anyone - he grits his teeth but the words fall out anyway.

‘Now that this is done,’ he says, attempting to reign in the desperation he feels, ‘I suppose you’ll want to leave.’

Sam stills. ‘Why’d you think that?’

‘Well.’ Frodo gestures jerkily out the window. Every anxiety is rushing up, condensing into a solid weight in his chest, heightened and burned by the alcohol into something near anger. ‘Your plant’s safe in the ground. Isn’t that why you stayed so long? So you could find a good place for your sapling?’

‘Seems like you know more about my reasons for stayin’ than I do,’ Sam murmurs. He’s watching Frodo quite steadily now, and his refusal to get drawn into Frodo’s anger, Frodo’s fear, bite. Frodo feels stretched thin, suddenly. Stretched thin and all alone.

‘Will you be off tomorrow morning, or tonight?’ _How quickly must you wish to leave me?_

‘Frodo.’ Frodo rubs his face with rough movements. Then two warm hands catch his own and pull them down until they rest in between Sam and himself, cradled, palm up. His fingers are very carefully uncurled. Sam shifts forwards, still holding Frodo’s hands in his, and looks up into Frodo’s face so he can’t ignore him. ‘Why’d you think I’d leave?’

It’s the combination of Sam’s gentle hands on his, the frank gaze Sam levels his way, same as always, cutting right through to the heart of it all, and Frodo grits his teeth. 

‘Because they always - ’ he hisses, then bites his tongue, jerking back. How long had he been alone? How long? He can’t recall what it feels like to wake up and not know whether he’d find himself alone. Even waking up with Sam for days on end hadn’t quashed that fear.

‘I suppose it’s my own fault.’ Sam’s voice cuts through Frodo’s jagged thoughts, sandpaper smoothing down the sharp glass edges of his loneliness. ‘I tried to show you as best I could, but I should have known.’ He smiles now, one of his hands moving to cup Frodo’s cheek. ‘I didn’t want to say, in case you told me it wasn’t what you wished - that’s my own foolishness. But I told you, Frodo-love. I’ll not leave you. Not until you wish me to go.’

Frodo stares at him. Unbidden, he tilts his face towards Sam’s palm. He’s shaking, he realises now, and grits his teeth in an attempt to still.

‘Why?’ he asks, voice barely stirring the air.

‘I want to.’

And then Frodo is pulling Sam towards him, running his fingers through that golden hair, pressing his face into the crook of Sam’s neck, he feels the skin beneath grow wet with his own tears but he can’t seem to stop - not as long as Sam’s thumb is rubbing across his hip and Sam is whispering, ‘it’s alright, m’dear, it’s alright.’

‘I love you,’ he breathes, his voice is scratchy with crying, and he feels a shudder in Sam. He moves so as to be able to peer into Sam’s face, needing to see him. ‘Sam, I love you, I love you so -’ and Sam’s face is lined with his own tears now, which Frodo kisses away fervently. ‘Dear, dear, Samwise - ’

Sweet nothings become kisses, open mouthed and damp, Frodo trailing his mouth across Sam’s cheeks and throat and forehead.

How they manage to stumble up to the third floor without separating more than a few inches is a mystery happily unsolvable, but they end up with Frodo baring Sam down on his bed, Sam’s cheeks hot and pink, his breath laboured. 

‘Stay with me,’ Frodo says again, the blood in his veins bright and humming.

‘I’d not leave for the world,’ Sam replies, pressing the words to Frodo’s skin. Frodo takes Sam’s hand in both of his and brings it to his mouth.

‘I adore you.’ He says the words over and over, the happiness in his hands streaming between them, setting the room aflame. ‘I adore you, I adore you, I adore you.’

-

Merry and Pippin found the kitchen empty and cold, they tell Frodo after barging into his room the following morning.

‘We wanted to make sure you weren’t dead,’ Pippin says baldly, while Merry eyes the tangle of limbs that is Sam and Frodo. 

‘I’m not,’ Frodo mumbles from somewhere around Sam’s chest, pressing his nose into Sam’s side.

‘But I fear we might be if we disturb them much longer, Pip,’ Merry stage-whispers, and they vanish, their laughter echoing down the stairs.

‘Smart lad, that Merry,’ Sam notes, rolling over to press a kiss on Frodo’s forehead. Frodo trails his fingers up Sam’s arm and across his chest, mapping it out under his hands. He smiles.

‘It might take me awhile,’ he muses, ‘to get used to this. To waking up, knowing you’ll be here.’   

Sam nods, drawing Frodo into a cocoon of soft warmth made by their bodies and the blankets. ‘I’ll wait.’

Downstairs there’s the sound of a loud crash, and Frodo winces.

‘Sounds like Merry and Pippin have taken breakfast into their own hands,’ he murmurs, smiling against Sam’s shoulder.

‘D’you want to go down and help them?’

‘Oh, I’m sure they’ll be alright,’ Frodo says lightly. ‘Just this once.’

In the cafe’s kitchen, Merry returns the pot he dropped to its original place.

‘Did I hear someone knock?’ Pippin asks, not turning away from the scrambled eggs he was tending to on the stove. Merry crosses to the door and opens it. Outside, a tall, humble looking man peers at him. The man blinks.

‘Is Frodo not here?’ he asks.

‘He is,’ Merry asures him. ‘Oh, come in, come in. Yes, Frodo is here. He’s currently indisposed. Pippin and I are here to help until he gets back on his feet. Can we get you anything?’

‘I’m making eggs,’ Pippin calls.

‘Eggs sound wonderful,’ the man says, frowning. ‘But is Frodo alright? I’ve never known him to be ill before.’

‘He’s fine. He’s... well looked after. Now, can I offer you anything to drink?’  


**Author's Note:**

> i highly suspect ill be writing more Frodo and Sam fanfic because that's the kind of person i am, so if anyone wants to be a beta for future stories pLEEASSE let me know in a comment how i can reach you


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